Breeze Blocks and Dandelions
by Aquaphobe
Summary: "... Dude... Is that a breeze block?" he asks, incredulous. I twitch. 'No,' I want to say. 'It's a fucking merry-go-round.' Of course, that isn't quite the sentence that makes it out of my mouth. — Warning for slash, Creek, insanity and much foul language. This story should not be read by anyone. Ever.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own South Park. Just a really twisted mind – oh, and of course the spelling mistakes which are bound to be lurking around in there.

**A/N:** This story can be read as a stand-alone story or, if you're looking for more to read, a really weird side-along story to my Kyman fanfic, Junk of the Hearts. Ezspecially as these two stories sort of... co-exist beside one-another.

Yay for Creek! :D

**Breeze Blocks and Dandelions**

**...**

1

_Fortes and Farewells_

I steal breeze blocks.

It's not like I, y'know, do it to be a weirdo or anything. Oh, Jesus, I'm enough of a weirdo as it is, without any extra help!

It's just... It's just that being in a place as fucking messed up as South Park does stuff to people – does stuff to _me_ – and the only way to make it stop scaring you is to give in to it.

You can't turn away from it, because once you're a part of South Park, there isn't ever a way out. There isn't ever a way back to normal. And besides, trying to fight it is just way too much pressure for one guy to take.

That shit messes with your head!

So, the next best thing after fighting it is to just go with it – and yeah, yeah, that sounds batshit crazy coming from a paranoid fuck like me, but you've gotta trust me.

Just, trust me on this one.

South Park isn't just a little white bread, red neck mountain town. South Park is a semi-conscious being. South Park is ruled over by some kind of higher power.

South Park is the Devil's Playground.

I don't know what exactly that makes us townsfolk, but I'm willing to bet that it isn't anything good.

Some morbid part of me wants to find out – wants to know what controls this place and fucks with our lives, like a puppeteer pulling the strings and making us dance – so I watch the world around me.

And I see all the small things that no one else sees.

I see the dent in the locker and the bruises of Cartman's knuckles, tucked away in the sleeve of his jumper. I see Mr Vanders come out of the staff toilets during lunch hour, his eyes all dilated and his tongue running over his gums. I see the bruises that appear on McCormick mysteriously overnight; I see the way his hands shake when he lights up a cigarette. I see Cartman watch Kyle, watching Stanley.

I see the way that Craig watches me, even when he's not nearby. Just because I don't say anything, doesn't mean I'm not aware.

But mostly, I see the tightness around their eyes when I start shrieking, and jittering, and twitching.

'Twitchy Tweek', that's just who I am, apparently.

No amount of coffee could cure this – actually, I'm really aware that it just makes me worse. I _have_ tried the Ritalin that I was prescribed, you know. I'm very aware that it helps all that.

I just don't like the feeling that it's controlling and changing the way that I feel. It makes me crazy paranoid, taking that stuff. It's like I can't be myself.

I hate it.

So, I don't take it.

And because I don't take it, I end up in some really fucked up situations.

Like this one.

"... Dude... Is that a breeze block?"

_No_, I want to say. _It's a fucking merry-go-round._

Instead (of course) I have this one massive, seizure-like twitch, and drop the rucksack – breeze block precariously shoved inside, and all.

Right onto his toe.

Craig yelps, swearing loudly and wrenching his foot back.

Beyond the outwards part of me (which is currently shrieking, "_Oh Jesus Christ, I am so dead! It's over, it's over, he's gonna kill me!_" and trying to rip out chunks of my hair), there's this ever present voice of wisdom, which I like to refer to as Ritalin-Tweek.

Ritalin-Tweek thinks it's ironic that the nosey prick got landed in a load of pain, after all those weird years of not-quite-friendship and torment.

I fear that Ritalin-Tweek might be a sadist. And a complete tosser.

"Holy shit, Tweek," Craig swears, a couple of steps further back now, as he shakes out his foot. "Why the _fuck_ do you have a fucking _breeze block_ in your bag?"

I mentally snort. Who says that _he_ needs to know why I do what I do? He'd never understand. Actually, he'd probably just make fun of me even more than he already does. Yeah, that's something I don't need any time soon. I've already got a load on my plate, without _this_ on top of it all.

_Like I'd tell you_, I think in his general direction.

So, naturally, I tell him. "I— nngh— I'm making a forte to keep them all out!" I realise how fucked up this sounds – actually, I sound like such a psycho (even to my own ears) that I can't help but think that I deserve whatever scorn he throws back at me.

There's this long, drawn out moment of sort-of-silence, in which I mumble "Oh God, oh God," like a mantra under my breath and fidget nervously where I stand. The rucksack-breeze-block-combination lies in front of my feet with this eternal seeming patience.

Craig just stares at me blankly – incredulously – as if he's trying to figure out why the heck he's even wasting his time on me.

He's still crouched over, clasping his booted toe. I see that his eyes are rimmed with pink, and are slightly puffier than usual.

I also see that he's not wearing any gloves, or a hat, or a coat. But you don't have to be observant about those sorts of things in order to see them.

It's pretty obvious that something's wrong with the usually stoic douche.

I hate to say it, but I sort of want to know what's wrong.

The breeze block can wait.

...

My toe really hurts. I wonder if it's broken?

Why the fuck am I even still out here, anyway? This was just meant to be a quick trip to the corner store for some food. All I wanted was some chocolate and some gum, but no. I guess that's too much to ask for, today.

And as interesting as Tweek is to fuck with on a normal day, right now I'd rather shove my head in a blender than be near him. Seriously, it's too much too soon.

I'm afraid that all these similarities I'm seeing will just drive me crazy.

The last thing I need right now is to be insane, on top of all the other shit.

But maybe all this isn't the right thing to be thinking about at the moment. Aren't I meant to be surprised by what he's saying, or some shit? Maybe I would be if I wasn't so used to Tweek – from anyone else, that sentence would have been enough to get them locked away and dosed up to their eyeballs in a shitload of drugs.

But this is Tweek, so it's no revelation that the kid's a fucking nutter. And besides, I'm almost too tired to pretend to be shocked. Still, for whatever reason, I do my best to come across as incredulous. '_Appearance for appearance sake_', whatever that means. Maybe if I pretend to be my usual self, I'll forget all about today.

So, after what I figure is a long enough pause, I arch an eyebrow and say very slowly, "A forte."

He jolts violently on the spot and yelps a nonsensical sound, his head jerking up and down like nodding's going out of fashion.

"...Why?" is all I can bring myself to say.

This, apparently, is the wrong that to say. Tweek convulses to life then, dilated hazel-green eyes darting here and there, his fists tugging at handfuls of his hair. "Because, _dude_, I have to make sure they can't get to me! I have to make sure that I'm safe from them when I sleep! Gah, what if they were to— ngggh— get into my head? _What if they broke me_?" I speculate over pointing out that 'they' probably already had, considering how screwed up the paranoid fucker is, but something about the tick under his right eye, and the fidgeting reminds me too much of—

I gulp loudly, and tell myself it's the wind that's making me shiver like this.

Instead of bating him like I usually do, I just sigh and straighten up, towering – lanky as ever – over his jittery frame. I wriggle my still throbbing toe and watch him for a moment, hoping that my face is still blank.

Then, I shove my hands roughly into my pant pockets (which are already crammed full of chocolate bars), shrug my shoulders and turn away.

"Well," I say in a monotone, addressing the paranoid blond over my shoulder. "Good luck with that, then."

"Gah! _Too much pressure_!" Is the only farewell I get.

...

**A/N:** so, what'd y'all think? These chapters are all gonna be from a first person perspective, and are likely gonna continue to alternate between characters. The length of the chapters is probably going to go haywire too – I'm just letting this one reign loose.

Reviews and feedback would be much appreciated – especially as I've never actually read any Creek, before.

-Aquaphobe _(21/10/13)_


End file.
